Chasing Stars (24 page)

My foot frenetically taps the tile floor. The customs officer at London’s Heathrow Airport glances at my picture and up at my face repeatedly. Seriously, how long do you need to check a picture? Finally, he hands me my passport and waves me away.

I’ve never been to London before. But I am too anxious and I overlook my surroundings. Focused on my destination, I hail a cab.

“Dorchester Hotel, please.” I sit in the back of the vehicle and am bothered by the driver who is on the wrong side of the car and driving on the wrong side of the road. God, how can the British do this?

The twenty-minute drive allows me time to mentally organize my thoughts and file what I do not want to convey to Portia. What do I really want to tell her? For the last few weeks, my life has been hell. When Portia left, her face never indicated she was upset. I called her the following day and found it strange when she did not answer the phone or call me back. For a full week, I called her repeatedly, leaving voicemails and text messages. She never replied.

I called Stefan and, though he was his polite self, I noticed a distant tone in his voice. He reassured me that Portia was busy but would return my calls as soon as she was available.

I rub my hands over my jeans and inhale deeply. Before Portia left, Stefan and I had planned for me to join them on the last part of the tour—London and Paris. But when Portia failed to return my calls, I canceled my flight. I felt betrayed. Granted that it hurt like hell, but I decided to give up on the crazy whatever we had going on between us.

For the last few weeks, I did nothing but dwell on what went wrong. I finished my paintings, in a hasty and careless manner. I had no idea of the quality of the final product. To my surprise, the gallery owner who will host the reception for my paintings told me they are brilliant and the best I have produced. Go figure.

Yesterday, when my phone buzzed and Portia’s picture flashed on the screen, I almost went mad. I wondered about what had made her ignore me and then text me as if nothing had transpired during these past weeks.

Blinded by a need of confronting the truth and the desire to see her, I shoveled the first clothing my fingers touched into a duffel bag and rushed to JFK. Luckily, I was able to find a fight three hours from the time I arrived at the airport.

Now here I am, ready to confront her. Oh, hell. I am here because I desperately miss her.

I pay the taxi fare and grab my bag. I leap over the three steps in front of the hotel. The concierge opens the door to the luxurious hotel with rooms overlooking Hyde Park. The opulent lobby intimidates me, but I head to the front desk and utter my name to a proper Englishman.

Back when the plan was for me to come, Stefan told me he would arrange for me to have a key to Portia’s room so I could surprise her. I wonder if he still did. At this point, I hope not to shock or upset her. Again, I question my decision to come here.

“Here is the key to your suite. Have a pleasant stay.” The receptionist grants me a polite smile. I sigh, relieved that Stefan remembered to leave the key. If he did, it would seem Portia wants me here.

“Thank you.” I stride to the elevator, oblivious to the grandeur of the palatial hotel.

When I reach the suite, I stare at the door, debating if I should knock or just enter. My heart is thumping. I rub my sweaty hands on my jeans and my knuckles tap the door.

Nothing.

I realize it is only seven in the morning, London time. I slide the cardkey in, and quietly open the door. A dim light filters through a far window. I dump my duffel bag on a couch and glide across the living room. Stunned, I stand by her bedroom door and drink her in. The sight of my angel sleeping, even with smeared makeup and her disheveled hair over her face, is astonishing. I know that this image alone was worth traveling across the Atlantic.

I approach her bed and admire the incredibly beauty of Portia. Her chest moves up and down, in a steady and calm breathing. Her blouse is tossed on the floor. She is wearing the jeans I love, and a lace bra. She cuddles in the center of the vast bed. My hands twitch, anticipating the soft texture of her skin.

I am oblivious to how long I am standing still and venerating this woman I am crazy about.

Will is here. I know because our bodies are so in tune that I can physically sense him. The room is quiet, but when my eyes open I have the impression that a thousand knives are slashing into my brain. I mentally curse all illegal substances. I feel disoriented until I find Will’s gaze.

Will?

I try to focus my fogged mind. Where is Damon? I glare at the empty bed. Undiluted relief flushes through me. I am alone. Scraping my brain, I try to recall what happened last night with Damon.

“Oh, baby, you are so incredibly beautiful,” Damon reverentially uttered.

The unnerving line unraveled me. “No,” I said, pushing him off me.

“What?” Damon blinked several times, his sluggish mind having a hard time processing the desperation in my voice.

“I can’t, you can’t use his words,” I stuttered, scrambling from under his touch.

“What? What are you talking about?” he stammered and came toward me.

“You need to leave.” I sank on the corner of the bed.

“OK. I need to leave,” he said.

“OK.”

He stood and swayed a bit. “I need to go, right? Are you sure?” Too buzzed to understand my rejection, he stumbled back. He shook his head, confused, and scuffled out of my room.

I huddled in the middle of the vacant hotel bed, thinking of all things Will. My eyes burned, finally spilling the tears I had held for the last weeks. With trembling fingers, I wiped my face, but the stream of tears refused to cease. The effects of the drugs and liquor faded and an aching pain replaced the short-lived numbness. I sobbed into the pillow. For the first time in my life, I felt afraid of spending my days alone.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” Will’s low voice rumbles, bringing me back to the present. His eyes, riveted on my face, are impenetrable.

“Will?”

Unbelievable, he came to me. I scramble out of bed and leap into him, almost knocking him over. I know I must look awful, but I don’t care. He is here and that’s all that matters.

Our lips meet and I wonder if ever I missed someone this much. My hands clasp his face and fist his hair. My flesh instantly recognizes his coming alive. My need for him sends my body into a frenzy. I press every inch of me against his perfect body. The male scent of Will is clean and crisp, with an undertone of paint. Just as I remember. It’s home. His fingers dig in my hip, pulling me closer. His need to consume me is just as potent.

I swoon. The earth stops and nothing else matters. I melt into him, never wanting to let go. Breathless, Will pulls away.

“Wow, I missed your taste.” His thumb runs roughly across my trembling lips. His hands cup my face.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls or call me back?” His expression is pained. I notice his hair is longer than usual and a beard shadows his face, making him sexy as hell. Inwardly, I smile. That’s one of his charms, he is to the point. The happiness of seeing him dissipates, and fear replaces it.

“I am sorry.” I scramble my brain for a better answer, but the throbbing pain in my head makes my mind sluggish.

Will quirks his brow, and I know I need to elaborate. I focus on what to say. I desperately need Will to forgive me. But, can I bare my soul to him? I search his eyes, but he gives nothing away. Yeah, I must work on being very convincing.

“How did you get here?” I ask as a feeble attempt at stalling. I go to the dresser and retrieve an ivory cashmere sweater.

“Commercial flight,” he replies curtly.

“That’s not what I meant,” I snap. He irritates me. I have never been this vulnerable and he is not helping.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Like an incarcerated lion, he paces the plush carpet for a minute, and then strolls across the room. He opens the door and steps onto the terrace.

I pull the sweater over my head and follow him.

“Quite a view,” he says, admiring Hyde Park. I see his knuckles have a tight grip on the rail. He is tense.

My body, instinctively, seeks his. He turns to embrace me and I rest my head on his solid chest. My body molds into his.

I run my tongue on my dry lips, and close my eyes. My mouth feels like I ate sandpaper. A killer headache makes it difficult to keep my eyes open, but I ignore it. I push the excruciating pain to the side. I have better things to do than to nurse a hangover.

“I felt confused and lost,” I whisper, gazing at him and silently begging for his understanding. He looks me straight in the eye and I crack inside. His intense eyes strip me down to my soul, and I simply don’t remember feeling this exposed.

“Why?” He releases me and steps back, away from my embrace.

“Damn it, Will.” I grimace. “Do you really have to make this so hard for me?”

“Portia, as I recall, when you left New York, we were good. And then, you just disappeared on me.” His fingers run through his hair. “I had to follow you through the damn Internet. Do you have any idea of how awful I felt?”

“I am sorry, I was just…too afraid,” I finally confess.

“Of what?” He looks down, deep into my eyes. I see he is trying to comprehend me.

“The immensity of my feelings for you…and that I am unworthy of you.” I bite my trembling lip, feeling vulnerable.

Will trudges forward, stopping in front of me. He looks down, and I see in his eyes the desire to shelter me. He wraps his arms around me, calming my raw soul.

“Oh, baby. I’m so scared too…” He kisses my head. And it feels so right to hear him call me baby.